Now that they were on the ground she could see that the fields were actually a vast lawn, and the green lawns gradually rolled up to a hill dominated by a large gray castle with a tall square stone tower and smaller towers at different corners.

As they taxied, they headed closer to the castle, and different features came into view. The big square tower’s parapet. The tall Gothic windows. The arches above the narrow windows. There were no trees or shrubs to soften the starkness of the castle. Instead it just rose up from a sea of green, and it didn’t strike Logan as a particularly friendly castle. Maybe it was the dark sky and drizzly rain, but the forbidding exterior made her think it was a fortress, not a home, and the last thing she wanted was to be locked up. Trapped.

“Who lives there?” she asked uneasily, hoping against hope that this was not the Irish estate Morgan had talked about. Morgan and Drakon had visited Rowan’s Irish estate a year or so ago and she’d made it sound palatial. This was not palatial.

“I do.” Rowan shifted in his chair, legs extended, hands folded on his lean flat stomach. “When here.”

She glanced out the rain-splattered window and sucked on the inside of her lip, trying to maintain her calm because as impressive as the castle was, it lacked warmth. She couldn’t find anything inviting about such a massive building. “I can see why you don’t spend that much time in Ireland.”

“I’m here quite often, and I am very fond of the place. I gather you don’t like it?”

“It’s stark.” She hesitated, before adding, “And very gray.”

“There’s a lot of stone,” he agreed. “But it’s sturdy. The oldest towers are over six hundred years old. The newer sections are two hundred years. But when I bought it, I refurbished the interior and you’ll find it quite comfortable.” His smile was crooked. “I love my mother’s country but I must have a little too much of my father’s Greek blood, or maybe I’m just getting older, but I don’t like being cold.”

Her gaze met his and there was something mocking in his eyes, but it wasn’t unkind as much as challenging. He seemed to be daring her to say something, daring her to disagree, but looking at him there was nothing old or weak about him. He was powerful from the top of his head to the intense gold of his eyes, to the tips of his toes.

“I somehow don’t think the cold bothers you all that much,” she answered. “At least, I remember your saying three years ago that you trunk it when you surf in California. Even in winter.”

He shrugged carelessly and yet there was a flicker of heat in his eyes, as if surprised that she’d remembered. But of course she remembered. That was the problem. She remembered everything.

“I don’t like wetsuits.” Rowan’s deep voice rumbled in his chest and his head was turned, his gaze fixed on the drizzly landscape beyond the window. “Not even here, when I’m surfing in Wales or Scotland.”

The jet had rolled to a stop. The flight attendant was at the door. Logan glanced at him and then at Rowan who’d also unfastened his seat belt and was rising.

“Are there good waves in the UK?” she asked.

“One of my favorite breaks is in Scotland. Thurso East.